


Convivial Computing

by gloss



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bisexual Characters, F/M, HSWC, Historical AU, Semi-Public Sex, drugs and alcohol, homebrew computer club, unrepentant geekery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 06:49:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HSWC Bonus Round #3 prompt: Bro<3Mom, Silicon Valley, 1980s.</p><p>Strider works alone. Lalonde gets a kick out of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Convivial Computing

**Author's Note:**

> Handwavey tech mumbo-jumbo and gratuitous mucking around in the history of computing. With apologies to Adele Goldberg and the Steves.
> 
> Prompt asked for the 80s, I mashed up the late 70s with the very early 80s.

Strider works alone. That's his thing; he doesn't trust anyone else, not to keep up with him, not to pull their weight. Collaboration is for hippies and/or the slow-witted. He is neither of those things.

But this display terminal issue with the frame buffer is *killing* him. If he can get it solved, he might just have the new Altair, even an Osborne, on his hands: a single, extendable microprocessor system that can be built and maintained by the interested hobbyist.

"Talk to Lalonde," they tell him. "Lalonde's who you want."

He knows that, thanks, dude, waste of time. 

Everyone knows *of* her, of course. Even before he came back to California, back when he was hanging around Cambridge, she was a name you heard. Whether it was educational computing, astronomical data-crunching, and fractal-generated graphic visualizations, she was very often first or second author on the papers and presentations. 

Getting into see her at PARC is another thing altogether. Used to be, just about anyone could book an appointment and waltz through the place, step around the bean bags and study the dazzling array of hard- and software, but Xerox clamped down after yet another start-up brought one of their developments to market first. Lots of people say Lalonde fought the new restrictions, but Strider's not so sure about that. If his experience getting an appointment is any indication, she's gleefully got the whole place locked down tighter than Fort Knox.

Last week, driven half-insane by the CAL (computed algebraic logic-gate) that has kept him awake for days on end, he actually resorted to waiting for her in the parking lot.

That didn't go so well. It may not have been one of his better ideas.

"No can do, brother," she told him when he'd finished his appeal for help. She nudged him away with just the weight of two fingertips on his shoulder so she could open her car door. "Call my secretary."

"I *did*," he said and hated the wheedling whine in his tone. "I don't know what else to *do*."

She just smiled at him as she got into the car and turned the key. "Get creative. Surprise me."

Which is why he's here at the Stanford Linear Accelerator Center, hands jammed in his pockets, trying not to meet anybody's eyes. That's not too hard, given that the auditorium is filled with socially-impaired nerds and high-functioning (at best) dorks.

He spots Lalonde right away -- and not just because she's the only chick here. Her big, swirled-up sun-brassy natural is unmistakable and her Indian-print sundress is a riot of vibrant, almost violent, pinks and reds that set her dark skin aglow. Everybody else here is as square and drab as they come. Their droopy mustaches and open-neck poly shirts can only do so much.

"Mr. Strider," she says when he slips into a seat in the row before her. A few of her beige-gray suitors slink away. "What a completely predictable turn of events to see you here."

"I've come to the club before. Not necessarily for you." He sounds stubborn and childish. 

"Petulant," she says. That's what he meant. So Lalonde's a witchy mindreader: he's not surprised.

"Look, let's just drop it, okay?" He turns to face front. 

Up on the stage, the king nerd is tapping the floor with his yellow yardstick and mumbling for order.

"Whatever you like," she replies in that knowing, vaguely amused way shew has. It's so irritating. He crosses his arms, then recrosses them, tries to get comfortable in the seat, feels her looking at the back of his neck. He wants to run or dematerialize, *anything*, just to get out of here.

This is why he doesn't ask for help. People are assholes and the only one he can halfway trust is himself.

Despite her, he manages to enjoy the meeting. How could he not? These nerds may be the saddest of sadsacks and poor dressers who rarely see sunlight, but they are making incredibly cool systems and doing remarkable things with peripherals and displays.

During the "Direct Access" part of the program, Lalonde is one of the people who introduces herself. "Head of the Conceptual Schemas Lab at PARC. I'm futzing around with a home system to allow for synchronous language coding. I'd love to help with questions about machine language and pointing devices. But _please_ don't ask me for a job. Or my code." She waits for the laughter to die down. "Think I'm kidding? I wish I were."

Strider doesn't laugh. He figures this is his cue to slide down in his seat, cover his face, express all the appropriate shame. He's not going to play along; that's her bag. She's the bossy one. He's a lone damn wolf.

He'll just have to wear her down. No one can resist the Strider charisma for long, not even the legendary and overwhelmingly irritating Lalonde.

*

Turns out he was right about that, sort of. Not exactly. After the official meeting, about half of the attendees move over to The Oasis on El Camino Real for more casual, better-lubricated information exchange. Lalonde tugs on his hair as she was departing and invited him to come along.

Then she proceeds to ignore him for most of the rest of the evening. Strider's not hurt or anything. He concentrates on his conversation with a couple Apple guys about graphics and painting programs and drinks his beer. He's hardly even paying her any mind.

Lalonde, of course, is the still the belle of the ball. The nerds are eating out of her hand, buying her drinks, soliciting her opinion on everything from mag tapes versus floppies to the ERA and the royal wedding.

Not that he notices all that much. It's just a small space, that's all. He scores phone numbers from both Apple dudes; he only wanted the tall one's, but maybe the little guy will come in handy for non-personal reasons.

At the end of the night, she slides in next to him at the end of the bar, as if he's just been waiting for her. (He *has*, but it's the assumption he resents.)

"Don't scowl so much," she says and sets down her margarita. She leans up against him, full-body pressure, and adds, cold lips and warm tongue on his ear, "You're just about the prettiest one here, not to worry."

He drains the last of his beer and sets it down a little too hard. She laughs against him, arm slipping around his waist, hand dipping into the back pocket of his jeans.

"Just give me a tour?" he asks, gaze focused hard on the top shelf of bottles behind the bar. "Gimme that much."

He's getting desperate. And also drunk. Dangerous combination, he ought to know that by now.

Lalonde laughs again. The vibrations shimmy through him, somehow pull him closer. Her hand tightens on his ass.

*

She can hold her liquor much, much better than he. At closing time, he stumbles after her to her car. He squints at it, confused: it's a Datsun 240Z, ten years old and bright pink. _Gorgeous_ , but he could swear her car last week was far, far homelier.

"Traded up?"

She helps him into the passenger seat with a warm hand on the small of his back, then pats his shoulder. She doesn't reply until she's back around on her side. "This is my fun ride. Not for work."

He's stroking the dash with both hands. "Nice."

She gives him a wide grin, just shiny lipstick and teeth in the dark, before turning the key and shifting.

"Xerox pays pretty good, I guess?" 

"I sold a couple patents," she replies. Casually, like it's nothing. "Thought I'd treat myself."

His eyes are swimming -- they're driving down dark side roads -- and he's been half-hard since the bar. He keeps forgetting what his last thought was; he's just drifting, caught in her wake, tugged along.

Every time she shifts gears, her fingers lift from the knob and touch his thigh. 

"Here we are." She pulls to a stop at the end of a deserted parking lot. There are no lights. He _thinks_ they're in Bayfront Park, but he couldn't swear to it and he certainly wouldn't put money on that fact. "Want to get out?"

He licks his lips and Lalonde chuckles.

"See you, then," she says and slips out.

She's daring him, that's what it is. Every touch, every loaded glance, she's sizing him up. He's determined to measure up -- exceed expectations, even. Hell, he's already _literally_ risen to the occasion. Just a matter of finishing with style, far as he can tell.

He follows her, stumbling a little on the cracked pavement, and sinks down next to her on the hot, quietly rattling hood of the car.

Ahead of them, the bay is just about invisible. To see it, you have to look away, let it open up as this giant blackness in the corner of your eye. Look right at it, all you see are the lights, near and far, tiny inconsequential suns, yellow and green.

She helps herself to his jacket, folding it up and laying it carefully on the ground. Leaves him there on the hood, but trails her hand down his leg, all the way down, until she's kneeling in front of the headlight and tugging at his fly. She blows him right there in the clammy darkness, sucking him deep down, deeper than most dudes can't even handle. Tight and hot, and he's got his fingers in her hair, digging into her hot scalp, his eyes on the lacy outline of trees along the shore, and maybe it's kind of a religious experience. It feels like one, silent and intense, not that he'd know. His religion is kung fu and robot dreams, Sylvester's Step II and The Great Muppet Caper, the sheer elegance of logic gates and brutal honesty of machine language. But something's happening, that's for sure. 

He's groaning as he comes, no words, just a rasp that pushes up out his throat in pulsing time with his dick. It's too dark to see, but he could swear she's _smiling_ around him as she swallows.

"Had you pegged for gay," she says, pulling herself back up to sit next to him. She reapplies her lipstick.

"Yeah, most of the time." He feels slow, fumbly, flushed right through.

"Ah, I see." She cups her palm and pats her hair back into place. "Flattered to be an exception."

He touches her knee, fingertips stroking the thin muslin of her skirt. 

She glances at him, eyebrow up. "I have very high standards, Strider. If you think you can meet them --"

She's daring him. Again. For half a second, it works. He actually considers whether he ought to even try. She's gorgeous and out of this world and it's been almost five years since he so much as kissed a girl.

"That's what I thought," she says before he can move in. She crosses her legs and leans against him, suddenly sisterly. 

She flips open an antique cigarette case and taps out a joint. The match's flame flares up and she catches escaping smoke through her nose, then passes the joint to him.

They smoke in silence. At some point, he tips toward her, cheek coming to rest against the top of her head. A little later, she twines their fingers together, then flicks the smoldering roach away. It describes a shallow arc, sparks flying free, before the dark swallows it all back up.

"You'll want to check your data registers," Lalonde murmurs. "Loosen up some of the buses."

"Right, tried that."

She puts her arm around his shoulders. "Try it again, doll."

He doesn't argue. That fact alone is notable, even within the confines of his own mind. He nods and accepts her advice.

Instead of driving him back to SLAC to pick up his car, she takes him home. He doesn't know it yet -- but she probably does -- but he's moving in.

On the porch, she pauses, hand on the lock. "You're not allergic to cats, are you?"

 

[end]


End file.
